


A case of potions and terrible complications

by Itsasparkofgoldandscarletjoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Insecure Sherlock, Jealous Jim, M/M, Potions, Room of Requirement, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsasparkofgoldandscarletjoy/pseuds/Itsasparkofgoldandscarletjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock /needs/ an assistant and John Watson, fourth-year Gryffindor, top of his class in potions, seems to be the perfect one to be exactly that. But Sherlock makes one mistake. He lets his feelings creep into him and once they are settled there is no turning back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A case of potions and terrible complications

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Southpauz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southpauz/gifts).



> This is another gift for Southpauz for the Sherlock AU summer exchange! 
> 
> I'm sorry this one isn't finished yet, but I'll try to write as fast as I can to finish this. I'm not exactly sure where this is going to go, but I hope I'll figure out soon xD
> 
> Have a fun read!

_“Jim, I need your help,” Sherlock says flatly during a particularly boring Potions class. Jim cocks an eyebrow at him._

_“Come on, Sherlock. It’s not that hard. I’m not doing your work for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”_  
  
“Holmes! Moriarty! Lower your voices and get back to work!” Sherlock smirks at Professor Anderson in a slightly challenging way but moves back to crush his lionfish spines.

_“Obviously,” he whispers. “How well do you know that Watson kid?” he continues as if Anderson hadn’t interrupted them. “Fourth year. Gryffindor.” Jim’s nose wrinkle a bit at that._

_“Not much. Can have Molly investigate on him, though. Shouldn’t be that hard convincing her.”_

_“That would be very much appreciated.”_

==

“Muggle mother, Gryffindor father. Squib sister.” Always good to hear your deductions were correct. Sherlock smirked to himself. _Anything else_ , he asked by raising an eyebrow. “Best friends with Sebastian Moran, Hufflepuff and Greg Lestrade, Gryffindor. Best of his class in both Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Terrible at transfiguration. His boggart is said to be fear itself. No idea what that’s supposed to mean. Could be me.” Jim laughed manically at his own joke before continuing Molly’s findings.

“Doesn’t have a full bodied patronus. Wand: nine and a half inch precisely. English Oak with dragon heartstring core. Sturdy.” _Good, perfect._ That would mean steadfast character, easily able to endure stress, to the point when needed to be. Just what he needed! Sherlock pushed himself up from the couch he was laying on, almost jumped up in excitement.

“Perfect!” _Oh_ , this was good! The game was on! As Sherlock disappeared inside his head planning and thinking, he missed the look of suspicion on Jim’s face.

==

He needed to do this carefully. After all, he was only a third year. Yes, of course, his potion skills were far better than most, if not any, of the fourth year students, but he might still come across as weird. It wasn’t as if he had ever really spoken to John Watson before. Only on those couple occasions where he was around Molly (Molly’s friend, Sarah, had been John’s girlfriend for a while (short while, really, it was nothing, actually)). But those moments only consisted of a mutual ‘hi’ or ‘hello’.

This was going to be different. Sherlock took a breath as he entered dungeon three, where the potions club met every Monday. John Watson was one of the three people who led the club. The other two were Irene Adler, fifth year Slytherin, and Sally Donovan, sixth year Ravenclaw. The latter was the favourite of Professor Anderson. Idiots, both of them. Sherlock looked around the dungeon, spotting a few people he actually recognised (not remembered, remembering would mean they were important). There was the girl who once came to him for help on finding her lost rabbit. (Had been quite fun actually. The little white fur ball had been poisoned so it became invisible. It took him some experimenting with light charms until he finally managed to get his wand to produce UV light. Was hardly any work after that.) The kid who’d asked him for advice on his girlfriend (she was cheating on him, with another girl. He hadn’t known.) was working on a.. -Sherlock sniffed two times- ..sleeping draught. Dull. Then there was that girl who had thought she was dating a ghost. Which wasn’t even that weird around here, to say so.

But back to the point.

The thing that mattered now was John Watson. Perfect, jumper-wearing, loose-tied John Watson. He was easily walking around, laughing with people, showing them techniques for cutting certain roots and herbs, his hands always perfectly steady. As Sherlock was watching him, he didn’t even notice that _John_ had noticed _him_.

“Did you need anything?” he asked in a smiling voice. It took Sherlock a moment to recover.

“Em.. yeah. I wanted to ask something.” Dammit, he had planned this, why did he falter? He kept standing where he stood, in the doorway, as did John, a couple of tables away.

“Go ahead,” John said eventually when Sherlock didn’t continue, his smile turning into a smirk.

“In private?” Okay, step one: completed. John followed him towards the corridor.

“Okay? You are..?” John asked when Sherlock still didn’t say anything. “Sorry, not so good with names.”

“Me neither,” Sherlock responded, fidgeting with his blue and copper tie. “Sherlock Holmes.” John smiled.

“John Watson, but for some reason I think you already knew that.” Sherlock didn’t confirm or deny. It was down to business now, no backing out.

“I know you’re best of your class. I know you want to be a healer when you finished school. I know you lead the potions club but they won’t allow anyone in who isn’t fourth year or higher. I know _I_ need an assistant.”

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“Do you always talk so fast?” John asked, still the distracting smirk on his face. Sherlock frowned.

“No…” he drawled on purpose and apparently that was a good thing because John laughed in a way that didn’t sound mocking.

“So, you need an assistant? What makes you think I’m the one for that job? I’m fourth year. Shouldn’t you be my assistant then?” Sherlock paused, thinking for the right words.

“Ever done anything else than just following the recipe? Invented your own potions? Experimented on the way to use them, combine them even? Researched on other uses of ingredients? Involved other branches of magic in your potions?”

John gaped at him.

“So yes, I need an assistant.”

“That was.. Have you really done all that?” The look in his eyes was something Sherlock couldn’t quite place.

“Yep.”

“Amazing.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, quite… extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

==

“So, you managed it?” Jim asked over the piling books on the library table.

“Yep!”

“And you didn’t even need to bribe him?”

“Jim, I’m not _that_ horrible if I don’t want to be.”

“Oh! So it’s all an act for that pretty little Watson boy?” he sing-songed.

“Shut up.” Sherlock turned a page from the divination book he was reading. Tedious, horrible. Who cared about the stars, it wasn’t useful! He’d even done an experiment to prove it! Potions which, traditionally, can only be brewed with certain Lunar phases, can also be brewed using a simple spell (variation on Lumos Solem, actually, for the ones interested…). So, in conclusion, solar system: useless.

Jim was still being annoying, though. “But, Sherlock,” he said in a fake worried voice, “trust is one of the most important foundations of a relationship. I don’t think pretending to be someone you’re not fits in there!”

“I don’t want a relationship with him!” Sherlock shouted back in a whisper.

“Oh, someone’s a bit defensive..!” Jim was holding his hands in front of him, biting the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling. “Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me.” The prick had the nerve to wink!

“I hate you,” Sherlock groaned, because damn Jim for seeing right through him.

“Know you do, Sherlock, love you too.”

==

Tonight was the night. First experiment. John to himself for at least an hour. He’d asked John to ask for permission to use the potions classroom because Anderson hated him (him being Sherlock) and he had already blown up one cauldron too many. Of course John top-of-the-class Watson had no problem with getting permission.

Sherlock arrived a few minutes earlier than planned so he could already set up some equipment. Cauldron -small one, copper-, a few glass phials containing several emulsions, parchment to make notes, however, that would probably be John’s job.

He had already lit the fire under one of the emulsions as John entered. He pretended not to notice.

“Already started without me?” John asked, and as Sherlock looked up, he saw that apparently John Watson never said anything without smirking. How had he never noticed that before?

He responded with a hum and looked back to the green sluggish substance bubbling in the phial.

“What’s that?” John asked as he came closer.

“Emulsion of flobberworm mucus and aconite. Do you know the colour can actually be explained by science, much rather than magic?” Sherlock didn’t know why exactly he wanted to waste time explaining to John, because he most probably wouldn’t understand.

“Never had a clue.” The way John held himself - head cocked to the side, arms relaxed beside his body, feet just a little apart- told him everything he needed to continue. John was sincerely interested.

It took Sherlock a bit by surprise, though. He started to explain in detail about different elements being found in the ingredients and how they reacted -“Just as they would in a normal chemical reaction, but then enhanced to be more prominent by the magical capacity of the ingredient.”

He enjoyed John’s eyes on him, the feeling of finally being recognised.

They worked on the experiment (which consisted of fixing together two non-combinable ingredients permanently) in silence for a long time. The only sound being that of boiling substances, quill on parchment, and the occasional muttering from Sherlock’s side.

When John spoke up again, Sherlock only blinked. “So you do this a lot?”

Sherlock stared at him for a second and a half, before registering what he had said. “Yes,” he said hurriedly. “Well, not this exactly.. Never had company before.”

“Oh..” John seemed to be hesitating to ask another question so Sherlock just looked at him expectantly, curious about what the question might be, interested in how John would continue talking.

“So you don’t have a girlfriend then?” Sherlock frowned, wondering how John had connected those two things with each other at the same time as he wondered if this was what Jim had meant with ‘small talk’.

“No.. not really my area.” He let the statement of that answer hang between them, hoping it was subtle enough.

“Boyfriend?”

Okay, not subtle. But at least John didn’t seem uncomfortable with this. He still had an open expression. Or he was just truly interested, but no.. that couldn’t be. Why would he be?

“No.” Before John could ask any other questions, Sherlock backfired the question. “You?”

“Oh, no! Quidditch, homework. Don’t really have the time.” John looked down at his notes. Sherlock’s brows furrowed again.

They got back to work and didn’t speak until they needed to go to their respective towers because of stupid rules like curfew. John offered him a pumpkin pie which Sherlock accepted. More out of politeness than hunger, but he ate it anyway (which was new for him) as they quietly walked up the stairs.

“So.. uh..” John awkwardly came to a halt when they reached the point on the fifth floor where they needed to take a different turn.

“Yeah.”

“Good night?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Goodnight then, Sherlock. I’ll see you around.” And there was the smirk again.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock replied with a soft smile of his own.

==

As Sherlock lay down on his bed, hands plastered together under his chin, he started analysing the experiment. No, not the one with the emulsions. The John Watson-one. The one this was all about in the first place.

He had managed to get a bit of data today. Firstly: John Watson _noticed_ him. _Yes, of course he noticed you, you were the only one with him in the room, idiot!_ No! _Really_ noticed! In that other way. That way where you look at someone just for a fraction too long and wonder what they did to make you take a moment of your time to just stare at them like that and _notice_ them.

Secondly: John had responded to his body language as if they’d known each other for years, reacting on instinct rather than… whatever it was. Even Jim didn’t react to him in that way, but that might possibly be because Jim deliberately didn’t. He could, if he wanted, maybe.. Not the point.

Thirdly: There had been this moment when Sherlock had experimentally pushed the sleeves from his shirt up and he could have sworn he’d heard John stop grinding his scarab scales for a second. That could have been totally accidental, of course. But he had to take it into consideration that it wasn’t. Which was good.

Fourthly: Every single time Sherlock moved, John followed. And not in an awkward manner, but naturally. As if he belonged there, on Sherlock’s side.

And with that, Sherlock fell asleep. For once without thoughts spiralling all through his head.

==

Sherlock told himself that, no, he wasn’t only doing this for John, he wasn’t! He still needed those experiments, they were important!

So when the next day he found himself on the seventh floor, it had nothing to do with John Watson and everything to do with the research on moss growth on different floors and under different circumstances.

He’d found a lovely wall, somewhere between the entrance to the Gryffindor common room and the secret shortcut to the dungeons. The bottom quarter was almost completely covered with at least five different kinds of moss. Two kinds that he hadn’t seen before!

He walked up and down the wall, gathering samples here and there, thinking that it must be nice to just have a place to himself so he could analyse them right this instant.

It was a bit of a shock when Sherlock suddenly found himself facing a door instead of a wall. He looked around, brows furrowed, and let his hand slide across the handle. There was no one in the corridor but him and curious as to what the castle was hiding from everyone but him, Sherlock opened the door (not even a squeak!) and stepped inside.

It was dark, almost like the dungeons, but less pressing. There were all kinds of cauldrons and beakers and phials. Cabinets full of ingredients, mortars and knives!

It took Sherlock more than a couple of seconds to take it all in. He looked back at the door, suddenly realising what had happened. It was _him_ who had made the room appear! And he knew exactly how!

He rushed out, ran towards the portrait of the fat or pink lady, or whatever she was called, and scribbled hastily on a piece of parchment.

 

_Come at once if convenient._

 

_If inconvenient, come anyway_

_-SH_

 

He asked the first passing Gryffindor who didn’t look like they would eat him for breakfast to pass the note to John Watson. (Side note: Everyone knew John, being the star Chaser of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.)

Within five minutes, the blonde came rushing out of the portrait, heavy bag heaving on his shoulder.

“No time to explain! Come one!” Sherlock ran off. He heard John’s footsteps follow in less than a second.

“Sherlock, are you gonna tell me wh-” Sherlock held his hand up in front of John’s face, shutting him up effectively.

He paced in front of the mossy wall again, thinking what he had been thinking about half an hour ago and grinned, satisfied when he saw the door handle appear again. He held the door open and let John enter first.

“This is..- Sherlock, are you telling me we have our own potions experimenting room?”

Sherlock smiled, insides tingling a bit at John’s choice of words. Yes, ‘our own’ was good. He kept quiet though.

“You.. are.. amazing.” John’s eyes were filled with wonder and excitement. “Wicked!” He grinned at nothing in particular and there was a comfortable silence between them.

“So,” Sherlock started. “Want to analyse these mosses I found earlier?”

“Sure!” John replied quickly, way more enthusiastic than any normal person would be about mosses. “Haven’t got much else to do anyway.”

Sherlock knew that was a lie the moment he let his eyes slip over John’s bag. You only ever saw someone with overloaded book bags _and_ ink stains on them if said person was holding off homework. (People who actually _did_ their homework but carried their books around anyway, could, of course, have also ink stains on their bags, but wasn’t as likely. Balance of probability.) Guilty reaction, most common on teenagers. Take it with you and you feel like you’re at least doing something.

==

“You just _forgot?!_ ” Jim was furious. “You just _forgot_ you found a secret place inside the castle and you _forgot_ to tell me about it?! Sherlock, I know you, and if there’s one thing I know about you it is that you _don’t_ \- forget - things!”

“Jim, I lost track of time, okay?” Sherlock really didn’t have an excuse. He had deliberately not told Jim. Which was horribly selfish and he knew he would pay for it. “I just lost track of time and then it didn’t really came up anymore!”

Jim glared at him and that was the moment he knew he was screwed. A Jim who stopped talking was the most dangerous Jim you’d ever encounter.

He shot Sherlock a last look before diving back into his books. _This isn’t finished._

==

They met up again that Friday, Sherlock opening the door for John as he knocked on the door after his Quidditch practice.

John’s hair was still wet from his shower and Sherlock could smell the faint scent of sweat, muffled up by the more prominent scent of soap.

“How was practice?”

“Horrible. I could sleep for days.” John groaned.

Sherlock ignored the bed that suddenly appeared in a corner of the room. John just chuckled.

The room did that sometimes, giving them objects that they needed or wanted. Food was an exception though (Sherlock had experimented last Wednesday).

Sherlock found what he had been looking for and tossed a small vial of green potion towards John. “Drink.”

John looked at the potion as he caught it with ease, then at Sherlock, then back at the potion again, suspiciously. “Is it for an experiment, because I’m not sure if I’m up for that now.” He chuckled again and Sherlock felt his heart clench.

“Nah, just a simple mix of Wiggenweld potion and vitamix.”

John uncorked the bottle and put it to his lips. And Sherlock tried to look away, he really did, but John, with his hair stuck to his forehead, his tie loose around his neck, smelling of soap and just the hint of sweat, he couldn’t resist that, so he stared while John gulped down the potion, licked his lips and smiled up to Sherlock.

“That _is_ much better, yes!” He flexed his muscles as if to check if they still hurt, but all that did, was for Sherlock to stare even more.

“No muscle sores at all! Amazing!”

“You know you do that out loud?” Sherlock chuckled, a little flushed.

“Oh.. sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s fine.”

They both smiled at each other, eyes never breaking contact, until John coughed and spoke up.

“So, what’s on for today?”

“Well, since we don’t need to worry about pissing of Anderson any more, I thought we could do something a little more dangerous.” He saw John’s eyes lit up and that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. Heightened levels of adrenaline could induce the feeling of attraction. That would mean, two experiments at the same time! Always fun.

He shoved the bottle of Bulbadox juice, a magically enhanced pot with wartcap powder and two Jobberknoll feathers towards John.

“What do you know about these?”

As usual, John didn’t disappoint him. He named them all upon seeing them, listing their most common used and misuses.

“Not bad,” Sherlock smirked.

“What are we doing with them?”

Ah, of course. A wicked grin spread across Sherlock’s face.

“We’re trying to make one potion with the main effects of all three ingredients.” That wasn’t the hard part. “But activating those effects manually upon being drunk,” he added and smirked as he saw John frown.

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“Hypothetically, it’s not that difficult. We just need to test it.” John laughed incredulously.

“Oh, and I’ll be the subject, won’t I?” Obviously, he wouldn’t refuse.

“Don’t worry. I have antidotes right here. And the effects won’t be that strong anyway.” He wouldn’t let his assistant get hurt in any way, he’d see to that.

“Ugh,” John smirked, eyes falling downwards. “Tell me why I am such an idiot for you?”

Sherlock’s breath stopped for a second and he willed the blush that threatened to creep up into his face to a halt. He didn’t respond and just waved with his hand in a nugatory way, before getting to work.

He had written down the hypothetical recipe for the potion they were brewing. John only asked questions when strictly necessary and Sherlock only answered when said questions weren’t stupid. It worked for both of them.

The potion was finished in thirty-two minutes precisely, the catalytic ingredients enchanted with a simple disillusionment charm.

“Okay, to the best of health, I suppose?” John laughed nervously.

“Oh, come on, you’ll be fine, John!” Sherlock smirked, a warm feeling spreading through his chest when John’s lips curved up at the edges.

“Five minutes to see if there are any other unwanted effects, then we settle for the first one, okay?” John nodded in response as he downed the carefully measured glass of light brown potion.

Sherlock waited. John waited, frowning, looking down at his body as if anything might happen.

Nothing did.

“And? Feel normal?”

“Yes,” John confirmed as he flexed his hands.

“Okay, four and a half minute.” Sherlock looked over at the hourglass that was placed on the table they had been working at. “Tell me if something happens.”

“Will do!”

Those minutes were maybe the tensest minutes ever. Sherlock knew he should keep his eyes on John, for the sake of the experiment, but he was worried that there maybe was too much showing on his face.

Those school trousers did look good on John, if he was honest with himself, and he was, most of the time. The dark grey brought out the muddy colour of John’s eyes and it was fairly distracting.

But Sherlock willed his eyes not to dip any lower than John’s chest and suddenly Sherlock was glad the blonde wore the school pullover instead of the tight shirt that was part of the summer Quidditch uniform.

Sherlock swallowed, _one minute, thirty seven seconds, thirty six, thirty five_.

“Still nothing,” hummed John, sitting down on one of the more comfortable chairs, legs dangling lazy in front of him. “You really did a good job on this.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Sherlock said, voice tight as his eyes threatened to look down at the muscles flexing in John’s thighs. Instead he looked at some notes. _Focus, Sherlock!_

“Half a minute,” he announced, giving John some time to prepare himself. He raised his wand, pointing it directly at John, which might seem threatening, but John was still relaxed. He trusted him completely and Sherlock wondered how he had deserved that trust.

“Ten seconds.”

John nodded again.

“Are you ready?”

“Bring it.” That smirk, shit. Sherlock closed his eyes, forcing himself to think and _not_ screw this up.

“Alright,” he said, not sure if to himself or to John. Then he said the enchantment that reversed the effects of the disillusionment charm.

He saw John frown in response and wondered if something had gone wrong. If his hypothesis was correct, the effect should settle in three, two, one…- Ah!

John’s skin became visibly less smooth. John traced a finger of his own skin before grinning up towards Sherlock. “It’s working!”

That was the wartcap powder! Used in fire repellent potions. It made the surface of the skin harder, almost like rock.

Sherlock took a few steps so he was standing close enough to touch John’s skin himself. He tried to ignore the surge of breath that escaped John as Sherlock’s fingers made contact.

“It seems to be, yes.” The effect was as desired. Now on to the next step. “It should return to normal as soon as I activate the next effect.”

It was all worked out meticulously. After activating the next ingredient, the first effect was supposed to stop and the second effect was supposed to settle in in about six minutes.

He said the next spell and as soon as he’d said it, he noticed that something was wrong.

John’s face scrunched up in pain. No! This wasn’t good!

Sherlock rushed over as quick as he could manage, while grabbing the two bottles of antidote. “John! John, talk to me!”

He saw the skin break on John’s arms, red boils bubbling underneath the hardened skin.

“John!” Sherlock became frantic, this was all his fault!

“G-give.. me..-” John’s voice rasped through his throat. “Antidote.. give m-me..”

Yes! Sherlock uncorked the bottles, and set the one that should stop the boils against John’s lips. John swallowed helplessly, his eyes closed tightly.

His skin stopped bubbling, thankfully.

“Sherlock, it hurts.” John’s voice was weak. _All my fault_.

“It’s gonna be okay, John. It’s all right. Don’t worry.” He felt lost as he placed the second bottle against John’s lips. John gulped again, sagging in his chair a bit. “Are you alright?” He almost didn’t dare to ask.

“’m fine,” John mumbled half-heartedly.

“Told you not to thank me too soon,” Sherlock said in an attempt to lift the tension and shock and his own guilt but it wasn’t working.

John laughed anyway. “It’s alright, Sherlock. Not your fault.” His laugh morphed into a soft smile. “I know you’d never want this to happen. Not even for science.”

Sherlock smiled but still felt horrible. John’s skin was split in several places, looking burned around the edges. He’d make a paste for that. Should be done by tomorrow morning.

“Sherlock.” He looked up at John’s face who in return looked at him with wonder. “Don’t fret it. Come here.” There appeared a chair next to John’s.

He didn’t want to sit down.

As if the room read his mind, the chair disappeared again, but Sherlock walked a little closer anyway, leaning against the table, hands placed beside him.

“I’m not mad at you. I knew this could be dangerous. I knew all of that,” he waved at the notes on the table beside Sherlock, “was hypothetical.” John looked earnest, his eyes a wonderful colour of blue-ish brown. “But I did it anyway because I trust you and you’re my friend.”

Sherlock blinked. They were… “I’m your..” He blinked again.

“Yes..?”

Collegue, yes. Assistant, yes. Friend? “Friend?”

“Yeah, of course you are. Of course.. you’re my friend.”

Sherlock saw something flicker behind John’s eyes and he wondered what it was. “Thank you.. I suppose,” he mumbled, a bit unsure of what to do. John still smiled, that weird combination of admiration and something else in his eyes.

“You know I actually do this because I like spending time with you, right? I could be hanging around with Greg and Seb right now, but I’m here, with you.” Sherlock and John frowned simultaneously, as if both wondering where that confession came from. John still continued speaking. “You know what that means, right?”

Sherlock’s heart was beating faster than he cared to admit. John looked a bit nonplussed. And then it clicked.

 _Oh god._ Jobberknoll feathers. Truth serum.

“John..”

“Yeah, I figured.” He frowned again as realisation downed on him. His expression was immediately outlined by pure horror. He swallowed awkwardly and then mumbled something unintelligible. “I’m gonna shut up now.” Another cough.

“I think that is for the best.”

There was an awkward silence lingering between them in which they possible were thinking the exact same thing.

_What if..?_

What if Sherlock took advantage of this? What if John had said what he had been about to say? What if they hadn’t decided to shut up mutually? What if they were still talking now? What if?

But none of those things happened and they both remained where they were.

“John, I’m..”

“Don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. It doesn’t matter. It will go away, I just need..-”

It was quiet again for a while.

Sherlock went back to his notes, only to have something to do. Anything.

In the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed that John was fidgeting with the hem of his pullover. He looked as if he was withholding himself from saying anything, which was in his case probably a wise decision. John cleared his throat and Sherlock took it as an excuse to look up to him.

“Maybe I should go,” he said awkwardly. “It’s getting kinda late. I need to sleep.”

Again, the room thought it necessary to make the situation even more awkward by providing a bed. “Or I could just sleep here of course, thank you, Room!” He waved around with his arms, a little frustrated.

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he was being sarcastic or not.

“You could,” Sherlock mumbled, flipping through his notes in the hope to look uninterested.

“I could, yes. I see that!” The frustration had reached John’s voice and he slipped down in his chair even further. “And it is probably even a good idea since I have no idea how this truth serum thing is going to take before it stops working! Oh, god… I’m seriously considering this..”

Sherlock wasn’t sure why this was so awkward. They both slept in a dormitory with four other boys, so sleeping in the same room shouldn’t be such a big deal. But it was, it _was_ a big deal and Sherlock knew exactly why, on his part, at least.

This was John, interesting John, fascinating John, John with the idiotic Quidditch badges and the stupid jumpers on the weekends. Smart John, clever John, funny John. Sherlock took a breath. Beautiful John. With his sandy hair and his muddy eyes and his wonderful smirk.

He heard John move and his eyes followed involuntarily. John let himself fall down on the bed and Sherlock sucked in a harsh breath. John’s limbs were loosely handing from the bed and for some reason it almost looked inviting.

 _No! Sherlock, stop!_ He rummaged with some ingredients for the healing paste he would make overnight.

“I’m going to sleep here, if that’s alright?” John announced.

“Hm..?” Sherlock faked his disinterest. “Yeah, sure. No problem.” He continued gathering ingredients, deliberately ignoring the sounds of John removing his shoes and shirt and trousers. Oh god, don’t think.

He felt the blush creep up into his face and was suddenly glad that the room was pretty dark.

He heard John shuffle underneath the blankets. After a while he heard a soft mumble from behind him

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock replied with a simple “Goodnight.” He continued working on the paste as if the whole situation didn’t faze him in the slightest. He wasn’t tired yet and he just knew that under the current circumstances he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. He willed his mind to focus on the cauldron instead of John not six feet away sleeping (or pretending to sleep) partly naked. And now he was thinking about that again and _no! Stop!_

His heart was pounding, breath heavy in his throat. This stupid experiment had been an even worse idea than he had thought.

He put the ingredients in the cauldron, heating them until the correct colour was achieved. Distraction. Distraction was good. This demanded his full attention or otherwise the paste would make things even worse!

After the colour was a dark blue, it needed to stay on a low fire for three hours to inspissate. He might as well sleep, then maybe he would stop thinking. He looked around the room.

“Oh, yeah, thanks Room..” he mumbled quietly. One bed. Funny, really. So even the room hated him right now?

Sherlock yawned as he sat down against the wall.

He wasn’t doing _that_. Even though John’s body language was still inviting. (Palms open, facing Sherlock; laying on one side of the bed; not curled in on himself) _Shut up, Sherlock. It won’t get any better if you continue like this._

John was sleeping, this didn’t say anything about what he wanted or what he didn’t want. Sherlock couldn’t be _sure_ even though he wanted to be!

John’s breathing had slowed down. It was calming in a way and Sherlock felt himself breathing in the same rhythm. After a short while, he finally stopped thinking, his eyes drooping close and he fell into a weird sleep.

==

_He’s dreaming, he knows he is because he remembers falling asleep against the wall. But John is there. Right beside him (in the dream, of course) and their hands touch, back against back, just fleetingly. Sherlock looks through the room, laying on his side on the bed, John lies on his back, sleeping soundly. He wonders what would happen if John would wake up and as if his brain wants to provide him with an answer, John wakes up beside him. He hums happily, nuzzling his nose against the back of Sherlock’s neck._

_The tight feeling in Sherlock’s stomach multiplies as he lets himself move into the touch. It is only a dream after all, he reminds himself. Nothing could possibly go wrong in such a safe experimenting environment as this._

_He can’t possibly be sure that John’s reactions to things are similar to what would be John’s reactions in real, non-dream, life. His own reactions, though, are more likely to be exactly the same._

_John puts an arm around him and tugs him over, so that Sherlock’s face is currently turned up towards John’s own. Their lips are suddenly incredibly close and Sherlock knows he should feel John’s breath ghost over his own but he can’t. His brain is lacking the information of how that would feel. The approximation of the moment is still incredible and he holds his own breath, waiting for John to do anything._

_“Goodmorning,” the blonde boy just says, the perfect lazy smile colouring his face again. He’s smiling for a few seconds, looking at Sherlock like there is nothing else worth looking at and Sherlock feels his heart drop._

_Because no one has ever looked at him like that, and he isn’t sure where his brain got the information from to provide him with this dreamversion of John looking at him like that. He doesn’t like not being sure._

_John moves closer, until Sherlock has no other option than to go cross eyed, or closing them. He chooses the latter, but as soon as the darkness greets him, he hears himself gasp and feels the cold hard floor return underneath him._

==

Two hours and forty seven minutes of waiting in the dark room. One hour and nine minutes of analysing every aspect of his own reactions in his dream. Thirty-two minutes of trying to ignore John’s breathing. Fourteen minutes of finishing the healing paste. Another thirty-two minutes of trying to ignore John’s presence. Three minutes of staring at John’s lips. One minute of scolding himself for staring at John’s lips. Two minutes of trying really hard not to do it again. One second of giving up. Fourteen minutes of wanting to watch John’s lips move in a quiet and unintelligible mumble. It had gotten harder every minute not to.

So when John finally mumbled a “G’morning,” in a low huff, Sherlock was relieved to have something to do.

He grabbed the small tin container in which he had stored the healing paste and made his way over to the bed.

“Have you slept well?” he asked, because he assumed that would be the thing to ask.

“M’yes.. quite okay. You?”

“Fine,” he lied.

“Wait a second..!” John suddenly seemed more awake. “Did you sleep on the floor?”

“Yes.”

John looked around, frowning. “The room only provided one bed,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else, it seemed. “You didn’t have to, you know?”

John didn’t look at Sherlock directly.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mumbled in reply, opening the tin and putting some of it in his hands, warming the paste. He didn’t want to think about what that John actually meant.

“Next time we can share,” John said. He looked a bit shocked at his own proposition.

Sherlock had no idea how to respond so he said the only thing he could say.

“This will help.” Gesturing with his hand that was coated with the blue, semi-transparent paste, Sherlock sat down at the edge of the bed. “Healing paste.”

John eyed the blue substance carefully but extended his arm anyway. As Sherlock’s fingers made contact with the broken skin, John hissed but kept his arm steady.

It took Sherlock a lot to ignore how close they were, how he could smell John’s hair, how he could see the cracks in his lips if he tilted his head just slightly.

He continued to carefully spread the paste over the worst parts of John’s arm, his fingers moving with such delicacy, he hadn’t even known himself capable of.

“Other arm,” he said when the first one was finished.

John moved a bit under the sheets, turning his body towards him and extended his left arm. Sherlock felt his breath tighten in his throat as the silence ticked on. Fingers on skin, eyes on wound. Focus on John.

It wasn’t strictly speaking necessary for Sherlock to put the paste on. John could have easily done it himself, but neither of them seemed to mind.

“Are there any other places where it’s bad?”

John shrugged, then winched because of the movement and Sherlock knew there were more cracks in the skin on his back.

Sherlock spoke softly. “Turn around.” While John did so, Sherlock tried to find all the courage left in his body. His heart beat heavily in his throat. “Take off your shirt.”

If it sounded more like a question than an order, it wasn’t his fault. He knew that he shouldn’t make such a big deal about this but all his nerves were on high alert, taking in everything.

John made a soft surprised noise but started to tug the fabric over his head. When the Gryffindor winched again, Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder.

“Here, let me.”

And that’s when John turned his head, eyes big and blue and staring right into Sherlock’s soul. They were close, close enough that Sherlock could feel the short breath John let go after his eyes flicked down towards Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock could only hope he wouldn’t do anything stupid.


End file.
